The Project Gutenberg eBook, More William, by Richmal Crompton, Illustrated by Thomas Henry This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net Title: More William Author: Richmal Crompton Release Date: November 21, 2005 [eBook #17125] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 ***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MORE WILLIAM*** E-text prepared by David Clarke, Geetu Melwani, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net/) MORE WILLIAM BY RICHMAL CROMPTON ILLUSTRATED BY THOMAS HENRY LONDON GEORGE NEWNES, LIMITED SOUTHAMPTON ST., STRAND, W.C. 1924 "WOT YOU DRESSED UP LIKE THAT FOR?" SAID THE APPARITION, WITH A TOUCH OF SCORN IN HIS VOICE. (SEE CHAPTER IX. CONTENTS I. A BUSY DAY II. RICE-MOULD III. WILLIAM'S BURGLAR IV. THE KNIGHT AT ARMS V. WILLIAM'S HOBBY VI. THE RIVALS VII. THE GHOST VIII. THE MAY KING IX. THE REVENGE X. THE HELPER XI. WILLIAM AND THE SMUGGLER XII. THE REFORM OF WILLIAM XIII. WILLIAM AND THE ANCIENT SOULS XIV. WILLIAM'S CHRISTMAS EVE I A BUSY DAY William awoke and rubbed his eyes. It was Christmas Day—the day to which he had looked forward with mingled feelings for twelve months. It was a jolly day, of course—presents and turkey and crackers and staying up late. On the other hand, there were generally too many relations about, too much was often expected of one, the curious taste displayed by people who gave one presents often marred one's pleasure. He looked round his bedroom expectantly. On the wall, just opposite his bed, was a large illuminated card hanging by a string from a nail—"A Busy Day is a Happy Day." That had not been there the day before. Brightly-coloured roses and forget-me-nots and honeysuckle twined round all the words. William hastily thought over the three aunts staying in the house, and put it down to Aunt Lucy. He looked at it with a doubtful frown. He distrusted the sentiment. A copy of "Portraits of our Kings and Queens" he put aside as beneath contempt. "Things a Boy Can Do" was more promising. Much more promising. After inspecting a penknife, a pocket-compass, and a pencil-box (which shared the fate of "Portraits of our Kings and Queens"), William returned to "Things a Boy Can Do." As he turned the pages, his face lit up. He leapt lightly out of bed and dressed. Then he began to arrange his own gifts to his family. For his father he had bought a bottle of highly-coloured sweets, for his elder brother Robert (aged nineteen) he had expended a vast sum of money on a copy of "The Pirates of the Bloody Hand." These gifts had cost him much thought. The knowledge that his father never touched sweets, and that Robert professed scorn of pirate stories, had led him to hope that the recipients of his gifts would make no objection to the unobtrusive theft of them by their recent donor in the course of the next few days. For his grown- up sister Ethel he had bought a box of coloured chalks. That also might come in useful later. Funds now had been running low, but for his mother he had bought a small cream-jug which, after fierce bargaining, the man had let him have at half-price because it was cracked. Singing "Christians Awake!" at the top of his lusty young voice, he went along the landing, putting his gifts outside the doors of his family, and pausing to yell "Happy Christmas" as he did so. From within he was greeted in each case by muffled groans. He went downstairs into the hall, still singing. It was earlier than he thought—just five o'clock. The maids were not down yet. He switched on lights recklessly, and discovered that he was not the only person in the hall. His four-year-old cousin Jimmy was sitting on the bottom step in an attitude of despondency, holding an empty tin. Jimmy's mother had influenza at home, and Jimmy and his small sister Barbara were in the happy position of spending Christmas with relations, but immune from parental or maternal interference. "They've gotten out," said Jimmy, sadly. "I got 'em for presents yesterday, an' they've gotten out. I've been feeling for 'em in the dark, but I can't find 'em." "What?" said William. "Snails. Great big suge ones wiv great big suge shells. I put 'em in a tin for presents an' they've gotten out an' I've gotten no presents for nobody." He relapsed into despondency. William surveyed the hall. "They've got out right enough!" he said, sternly. "They've got out right enough. Jus' look at our hall! Jus' look at our clothes! They've got out right enough." Innumerable slimy iridescent trails shone over hats, and coats, and umbrellas, and wall-paper. "Huh!" grunted William, who was apt to overwork his phrases. "They've got out right enough." He looked at the tracks again and brightened. Jimmy was frankly delighted. "Oo! Look!" he cried, "Oo funny!" William's thoughts flew back to his bedroom wall—"A Busy Day is a Happy Day." "Let's clean it up!" he said. "Let's have it all nice an' clean for when they come down. We'll be busy. You tell me if you feel happy when we've done. It might be true wot it says, but I don't like the flowers messin' all over it." Investigation in the kitchen provided them with a large pail of water and a scrubbing-brush each. For a long time they worked in silence. They used plenty of water. When they had finished the trails were all gone. Each soaked garment on the hat-stand was sending a steady drip on to the already flooded floor. The wall-paper was sodden. With a feeling of blankness they realised that there was nothing else to clean. It was Jimmy who conceived the exquisite idea of dipping his brush in the bucket and sprinkling William with water. A scrubbing-brush is in many ways almost as good as a hose. Each had a pail of ammunition. Each had a good-sized brush. During the next few minutes they experienced purest joy. Then William heard threatening movements above, and decided hastily that the battle must cease. "Backstairs," he said shortly. "Come on." Marking their track by a running stream of water, they crept up the backstairs. But two small boys soaked to the skin could not disclaim all knowledge of a flooded hall. William was calm and collected when confronted with a distracted mother. "We was tryin' to clean up," he said. "We found all snail marks an' we was tryin' to clean up. We was tryin' to help. You said so last night, you know, when you was talkin' to me. You said to help. Well, I thought it was helpin' to try an' clean up. You can't clean up with water an' not get wet—not if you do it prop'ly. You said to try an' make Christmas Day happy for other folks and then I'd be happy. Well, I don't know as I'm very happy," he said, bitterly, "but I've been workin' hard enough since early this mornin'. I've been workin'," he went on pathetically. His eye wandered to the notice on his wall. "I've been busy all right, but it doesn't make me happy—not jus' now," he added, with memories of the rapture of the fight. That certainly must be repeated some time. Buckets of water and scrubbing- brushes. He wondered he'd never thought of that before. William's mother looked down at his dripping form. "Did you get all that water with just cleaning up the snail marks?" she said. William coughed and cleared his throat. "Well," he said, deprecatingly, "most of it. I think I got most of it." "If it wasn't Christmas Day ..." she went on darkly. William's spirits rose. There was certainly something to be said for Christmas Day. It was decided to hide the traces of the crime as far as possible from William's father. It was felt— and not without reason—that William's father's feelings of respect for the sanctity of Christmas Day might be overcome by his feelings of paternal ire. Half-an-hour later William, dried, dressed, brushed, and chastened, descended the stairs as the gong sounded in a hall which was bare of hats and coats, and whose floor shone with cleanliness. "And jus' to think," said William, despondently, "that it's only jus' got to brekfust time." William's father was at the bottom of the stairs. William's father frankly disliked Christmas Day. "Good-morning, William," he said, "and a happy Christmas, and I hope it's not too much to ask of you that on this relation-infested day one's feelings may be harrowed by you as little as possible. And why the deu—dickens they think it necessary to wash the hall floor before breakfast, Heaven only knows!" William coughed, a cough meant to be a polite mixture of greeting and deference. William's face was a study in holy innocence. His father glanced at him suspiciously.